


the conqueror

by antarcticas



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Zuko (Avatar), Developing Relationship, Dubious Morality, Established Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Ozai (Avatar) is an Asshole, Protective Zuko (Avatar), Zuko (Avatar)-centric, Zutara, eventually a decent amount of murder, more like zuko being a protagonist making increasingly dubious decisions, power couple zutara, s1 zuko gets the opposite of a redemption arc, twisted motivations and fluff, zuko is incredibly bitter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26454124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antarcticas/pseuds/antarcticas
Summary: Disenchanted with what he’s realizing is a futile search for a dead man, Zuko decides to change course at the South Pole and reevaluate his past. Another trip across the seas lands him at a conclusion—no, you cannot justify a duel with a child.Bitter, angry, and unable to give up his desire for his honor, the Prince of the Fire Nation resolves to kill his father.
Relationships: Aang & Katara (Avatar), Aang & Zuko (Avatar), Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Katara & Sokka & Zuko (Avatar), Katara/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 88





	1. there must be an object

**PROLOGUE: there must be an object**

_ To have a thought, _ **_there must be an object_ ** _ — _ _  
_ _ the field is empty, sloshed with gold, a hayfield thick _ _  
_ _ with sunshine. There must be an object so land _ _  
_ _ a man there, solid on his feet, on solid ground, in _ _  
_ _ a field fully flooded, enough light to see him clearly—  _

  
  


You walk down the corridors of the ship with your heart in your hands and no knowledge of who you are going to give it to. This is incorrect, a fallacy—you do not have a choice.

This vessel is made of wood and metal but it beats, reverberates, situates, and each ebb and fall of the waves underneath its feet creates a home, carves one out of what exists. Every person here has a story. Every person here has given something up and decided to sail the seas, and that is also not specific to those here. They have helmets and they are sometimes tenebrous, sometimes wondrous—they do not matter. You are not here to observe these tales.

A corner turned leads you to a door carved out of words and you reach down and twist open the knob and use non-existent strength to pull yourself inwards. And now you are here to observe  _ this  _ tale. This is the point, the pride and the folly, the culmination of everything you have seen—you are here to find the beginning of this tale and this is where it occurs, is stated. 

Between the shadow and the soul, between layers of cobwebs and dusty scrolls and remnants of a time that was (a time not many here acknowledge; a time that settles into them and makes them bitter, makes them want to renege on their oaths). The atmosphere is somewhat lambent even as it is perfidious, toxic and innocent and  _ telling.  _ This is almost magic but it isn’t. It’s terrifying. You’re here for a reason and that is to make an observation, to find out about what  _ was  _ so that you can write out the future, trap it in your palms and let it bleed out of your fingers. 

This is going to be painful.

The frame hanging in the back corner is glowing and fast-alight, alive. It has something to say (—that is the cruel thing about objects. They always have something to say. You are here to listen). It is carmine and rough and it makes your hands bleed under skin; it tears apart unseen capillaries. This would have told you enough about the story—but some things are invisible so you observe further.

A boy is painted here and that is simple. That is a response to a question you do not want to answer; when you grow older is the child who created you responsible for your decisions? 

Observe the ochres and the umbers, the young and innocent scion of the sun looking up through budding lashes. He is so oblivious and sweet and innocent and forgiving and . . . evanescent. You see what exists fade away because that is a placeholder, a cornerstone. 

Now gaze into this child’s eyes and write down your observations. You can see a background tossed with sunshine, with gold and empires, harsh and bright and utterly unallowed, purposeless here. It is a predictor of what happens next. This was a worthless story, nothing special nor specific until bells sang in a war room.

Crimson does not stand for the love of a mother but of a life without it. These will be differences, jarring and lacking. Gold does not stand for an empire but rather the hatred of a father. These are similarities. The portrait is soft and defined and created out of lines and not paint, calculated into being. You cannot derivate these eventualities. When you do someone grows old too fast. 

(These are small observations which occur easily in one’s retrospect, but to the creators of this piece the observations were done of a stubborn and unwilling subject. An object.

Who can be held responsible for actions that do not fit into a code? His founders or his writers or the girl who wraps herself around him? The happy ending might be a solution but you will wait too long.)

This painting was carved and breathed and burned into being and it is perfect for what it is. It is not what you see. There is no room here even though this is supposed to be a starting place. And what do you do when you need to build something anew and a landscape exists? You burn everything down. This is not a place for sentimentalities. We do not do that. You do not do that. The boy will not do that. 

(Will he?)

The ache in this child’s soul, the confusion in his features, the lack of finality which characterizes his wooden eyes and heartache smile—these are all gifts. These will be meaningful in the future when the embers are reborn. A part of you wants to tell him this, wants to tell the artist to strip the canvas and leave it bare and rough, a place to grow. These are not burdens one so young should carry. But it is so easy to forget that you are on a ship and that it is not time yet and that a thirteen-year-old grows, monumentally, as each of these rotations occurs. 

The left side of the portrait is pale and white and luminescent, almost looks haunting, like it knows the new story painted on that flesh. How much more can you create out of a fallen star and a parent’s hatred? This should not be a competition but you will take it up as such. Poor children, poor boy, poor story. This is a privilege.

A sister who always lies. A legacy that he cannot uphold. The solution to these problems exists in a binary; he may keep sailing and continue holding wisdom close to his chest (too close to his heart, can you see the sun, it is not burning red) or he may revolt. There are laws to this, laws to how fast you can move, laws to how fast the universe must implode. It takes more effort to act against how you are perceived. Nobody is going to tell the boy in the painting that he must move.

(Nobody is going to tell the subject now, on this ship, either—but with age comes bitterness and a  _ want  _ to move forwards, if nothing else.)

His lips move. He will smother these memories, smother beach days and small moments, will create rage out of them, will find a way to channel his passions; each and every nudge will turn into a limbless creature that will struggle to find its way to the light. The creature may struggle and fall. The boy’s lips are not moving. Do not take these things so easily. 

You are here to reach within a soul and find a contingency point for this story. You are here to issue an apology and remind all of these spectators that mountains can turn to valleys but that the opposite takes more energy; you are here to remind all those who pass that some people are made of perspective, that it is all too easy to lose yourself, that you never view these stories.

_ Welcome,  _ you are here to say. You leave the portrait. It will return in due time and pulse with something larger, beat to the drum of this tale. Stories do not discriminate. Some lessons must be borne with knives. 

You step forward.

There must be an object. This is going to burn. Ashes could be nice. 

(This is still a fallacy but it doesn’t matter—you will be bleeding by the end.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, the rest of the chapters of this fic will not be like this. They'll be actual English :D
> 
> Welcome to **'the conqueror'** , a fic exploring what would happen if Zuko didn't get a redemption arc. By the time we get to the action everyone will be aged up two years and Katara and Sokka will not have found Aang in the iceberg. This story and the paragraphs you'll see at the beginning of every chapter are references to Richard Siken's 'Landscape with a Blur of Conquerors', and the quotes are from the poem. 
> 
> This story has ten parts; a prologue, an epilogue, and eight segments in-between. Each of these will have three parts, each between 5-10k. Shout out to my beta/bff, My_Bated_Breath, for dealing with me :)
> 
> TC is definitely different than my other fics but I'm really excited to explore this concept! Thank you so much for reading. 
> 
> Fun times (or relatively dubious times) are ahead. Feel free to ask me any questions about the fic if you don't think something described as 'dark' is up your alley. Nothing in this fic will be explicit (in terms of sexuality or gory murder, although both will be referenced).
> 
> \- Dee (antarcticas)


	2. he's easy to desire (one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko fails to find the Avatar and sails the seas.

**ONE: he’s easy to desire**

_—the light on his skin and bouncing off his skin._   
_**He's easy to desire** since there's not much to him, _   
_vague and smeary in his ochers, in his umbers,_   
_burning in the open field. Forget about his insides,_   
_his plumbing and his furnaces, put a thing in his hand—_

  
  


“You should go to sleep, Prince Zuko.”

Spyglass clenched in his hand, Zuko remains silent even as Iroh breathes in, his sigh resounding across the ship’s deck. “There is nobody here, Prince Zuko. You need to sleep.”

“You can sleep,” he hisses without turning back, keeping his good eye fixed before the glass. “I think there are lights in the sky.”

“Ah,” Iroh says sadly. “That sometimes occurs in the poles. But it does not matter. You have been awake for all too long.”

“I’m not tired.” He doesn’t manage to quite hold in his yawn as he overlooks the freezing waves of the South Pole. His face isn’t visible but he’s sure that Iroh catches the movement of his back and knows it for what it is. Yes, he’s tired. His eyes have bags underneath them and his movements are a little sluggish. But he’s known not to sleep unless he has to. “Can we train, then?”

“It is late at night. You need your rest.”

“It’s light outside,” he points out, and that’s true — darkness only falls for a few hours a day in this corner of this world at this time of year. Firebenders do well in the sun but even they need their sleep. “You can show me the advanced set!”

Maybe his tone is a little despondent because Iroh sighs again. “Go to bed, Prince Zuko. If your basic forms are better in the morning we will eventually move to the advanced set. But your basics need to improve, you know this.”

“The Avatar will know more than basic forms,” he mutters, throwing the glass down against the ship’s deck and turning his head so that his long ponytail swipes against his scalp. Briefly he’s reminded that he’ll need to shave it again tonight, a mark of his task and his journey. 

“But you are likely not going to find the Avatar today,” Iroh notes, and he opens his mouth to disagree before hearing the man’s conciliatory tone for what it is. He groans as he walks past his uncle, slamming the door behind him and leaving him out in the cold. 

Minutes later, lying in bed, Zuko hears his uncle make his way to his own room. He stares at the small metal walls of his small cabin on his small ship and bites his lip before flipping around and losing himself in the darkness that flashes across his vision when he presses himself into his sailor’s sheets. His scalp is itchy and his heart pains. Another day without the Avatar—another day a failure to his crown, to his father.

* * *

  
  


He can tell that his men want to leave because there is nothing here but he’s made them come here and he isn’t going to leave so easily once again. Iroh, however, has no such inhibitions. “He is not here.”

Of course, the old, creaky Avatar isn’t here. The man is probably . . . he doesn’t even know. Half-dead, underground? Perhaps he’s already been reborn as a Northern Water Tribe child. He was just at that pole but he will have to go back. 

Jee loiters on the ship while Zuko stares at the spiral of the Southern Air Temple, taking in how decrepit and abandoned the building is. The Air Nomads were all killed a hundred years ago and this is what remains of their legacy. It is a little awe-inspiring that it’s still standing; it’s a relic of the past, after all, even if it’s pointless. Actually, he’s surprised that the Fire Nation hasn’t used this architecture for hosting colonists or their army or anyone at all yet — still, at the same time, he feels slightly at peace that none of this has been removed. 

He doesn’t think the Avatar is here. He doesn’t know anything about the Avatar at all. Still, he grunts and stalks past Jee and his uncle, veering around a side of the temple that he recognizes from his last visit, barely a year ago. “He could be hiding behind something,” he barks, “I’ll go look.”

His steps resounding across the stone floor of the temple, he passes by an archway until his crew is out of sight before climbing up a flight of stairs and taking in what looks like a small amphitheater of some sort. Entertainment—Mother used to force him and his family to watch such plays when they went to Ember Island when he was younger, when everything wasn’t like this. Zuko should keep going around but he doesn’t care to and he knows that his men, no matter what he says, aren’t going to go around the area either. To them he’s just a child with a raspy voice on a ridiculous quest.

The only sound that flows through the building is the wind—the land is elevated. Every plant here has died, is gone, and nothing else remains. A gust blows in and nothing but dust, ancient and alive, floats across the ground—he sighs and leans down against a small stone railing, tapping his fingers against the structure. A second later he sits down, his crimson and grey tunic billowing against the stone. He should get up and look for the Avatar. He needs to get up and look for the Avatar— 

Right now he can’t muster up enough energy to move. There’s no reason in particular for that because he’s slept a decent amount and has been training but his bones feel weak and his muscles refuse to take him forward, almost like his body is telling him to stop when his mind won’t. The air is quiet and if he turns to the side he can see the sea out of his good eye. He squints and can only see a vague shape with the other one. Sometimes he forgets that he’s scarred and a bit blind. His mind rejects the thought because that leads to his scar and it’s another mark of his failure.

He is a failure. He is a disappointment to his father—and an incredibly large one, at that, to have been given a scar as a mark of it. He can’t blame his father for it entirely, however. For pain and suffering to be his teachers . . . he deserved it. Some children can get away with being subpar but he can’t, especially as the Fire Prince. He was the Crown Prince, even. He’s not completely sure if he is anymore. 

_It doesn’t matter,_ he convinces himself. It doesn’t matter whether or not he is now because he’ll be a good son and a good heir and a good future Fire Lord when he regains his honor and when he finds the Avatar—when he gets up and stomps through this large building. That man is a coward, worthless. He has no honor of his own. All Zuko wants is his honor, all he wants is his father’s love. All he wants is to be enough.

He draws his shoes across the stone, hears his soles scrape across rock. The air is whistling here and it suddenly feels suffocating to be in an air temple, of all places. Can he even be here? He shouldn’t.

When Zuko stares out at the structures in front of him he sees benches where children must have stayed, large courtyards for air bison, fields once full of greenery and leaves where young airbenders must have chased each other around. He’s young and agile and able to navigate this landscape fairly well—he does have physical strength, if nothing else—but as he traces the arcs of the pillars in front of his eyes he realizes that every part of this temple is designed for airbenders; for them to leap from platform to platform, for them to use their bison. And now all of that is for naught.

Nobody has been here in a hundred years, he suddenly realizes clearly. And something else beats in his chest and he finds the energy to rise, his steps sounding terribly loud as he makes his way back to his crew, as he takes in his uncle sitting on a bench with his teapot. The world is silent except for the ghosts. He wants to shudder. “Let’s go.”

Jee starts. “We just got here—”

“Let’s _go,”_ Zuko insists, whinier than usual, his tone belying how off-put he is instead of channeling his usual childish authoritativeness. “We’re done here.”

Although he sounds less enraged than usual only Iroh dares to follow up after slowly taking a sip out of his steaming cup. “Where are we going next, Prince Zuko?”

“I—” he has a list of places to go. He’s sailed the world twice over already and he has places he wants to check, plans he’s made to double back to certain islands in case the Avatar is evading him. Back to Kyoshi Island, around the side of the Earth Kingdom across the less-habited colonies. He hasn’t been there in years. Or perhaps the ruins of the Southern Water Tribes or somewhere in Ba Sing Se . . . 

Or perhaps the Avatar is hiding in the Fire Nation, in his home, the place he’s most ashamed to show his scarred face. That would be an ironic ending for him. He has places to go.

“Set sail east,” he stomps forward and his stomach rolls. They don’t need to see him like this. “I’ll give you more instructions in a bit.”

Murmurs abound amongst his men and he sighs and jumps down the set of stairs in front of him, spending his energy on ensuring that he doesn’t break his body so the treacherous thoughts in the back of his mind don’t worm forwards. Every step he takes resounds across the stone. 

This place feels haunted.

* * *

  
  
  


“We have been here for a month, Prince Zuko. This is the longest you have stayed in place. Are you sure you do not want to—”

“We’re not leaving.”

“The Avatar is not going to come to you—”

He knew drinking tea with his uncle was a bad idea. He throws the cup down. I and it rattles. Iroh looks at the spilled drops mournfully before resigning himself to observing a tantrum. And he does. 

“I’ve spent three years going to every place on this planet to find the Avatar and none of that has worked. I haven’t been able to find him. Maybe he's going to come to me. I don’t know. It’s time to get creative because this isn’t working,” he grinds out somewhat despondently. He seems more composed than usual but he isn’t, not really.

Iroh calmly lights his hand up under the pot and they both watch it bubble; Iroh’s eyes are neutral while Zuko’s fists are clenched. “I am glad that you are widening your thought process to include such possibilities as this, Prince Zuko. It demonstrates maturity.”

Maturity? What else can be expected from a boy who was given nothing but his own ship to command and a hopeless task to fulfill when he was just a child? Yes, he’d had to grow up all by himself and he’s starting to realize that this approach isn’t working. He needs the Avatar to come and face him and then he needs to beat him. He wants to yell again but he—he needs to improve and he’s mature enough to understand Iroh’s wisdom. 

It’s not manipulation; it’s learning. He picks up his cup and counts out each second that passes just as the bitter tea flows through his lips, the liquid moving around in his mouth, sliding down his throat. When he sets the cup back down he moves his hand to his side, presses it into his overcoat, and then smiles wanly at Iroh. “I’ll show you my basic forms again.”

Arguments lend themselves to a lack of accomplishment. Iroh looks satisfied like he thinks his nephew has learned some great moral lesson and settles down to watch him go through his katas. Zuko has spent a month running through these forms again and again into the darkness of the light, channeling his sister’s want for perfection if not her insane inclination for it.

He is not Azula—his limbs do not move with the same ease as hers and he requires thought behind each movement—but he has worked hard for this and he knows that he needs to try his best. On the deck, his foot slips minutely and he lets the energy of his slight fall release itself out of his breath.

Zuko’s feet stay on the metal and his breathing isn’t perfect but he hopes it’s necessary. He’s done this set dozens of times and he needs to do better. He will do better. He can always do better—he must. With one last kick he pivots one foot through the air and breathes out, pretending he’s utilizing his breath. Iroh falls for the machination and when he stops and bows; his uncle and master looks at him with pride. He doesn’t quite know if it’s deserved for the proper reason but he soaks up the attention anyway. 

“You have been doing well, Prince Zuko. Soon you will be a master,” Iroh says sagely, and he dares to hope. He doesn’t dare to ask. Iroh should believe that he is pressing it and— 

“I must eat my possum,” the man nods and pulls out a bowl to his side. “But I will show you the advanced set tomorrow, Prince Zuko. How long will we be here?”

“Why do we have to leave?”

“The villagers are getting antsy,” Iroh pronounces, “even if we are not aggressive.”

“I don’t see how that’s a problem as long as they’re continuing to trade with us.”

“Some things take time. But it is not good to have people fear you. It is not the right thing.”

_That makes people unpredictable,_ he thinks. Like his father, like Azula. He doesn’t want to stew on this any longer. “Why are they . . . uncomfortable?”

“My, but that is simple. We are Fire Nation.”

He frowns. “But Yu Shong is a colonized region. These people are descendants of the Fire Nation. They shouldn’t mind us.”

“Colonized region, indeed,” Iroh notes before sighing. “It does not matter, Prince Zuko. We will stay. But you must—”

“I’ll tell the crew to be . . . nice,” he stumbles out, lacking a better term to use, and his uncle smiles at him. 

“I am proud of you, Prince Zuko.”

That burns.

* * *

  
  


The people of Giayao Island fear the unfamiliar crew more than the people of Yu Shong did—they are not used to visitors and they are not used to being seen. This island is barely on the maps that litter one of the rooms of his ship, the ones he has not stared at in ages. The people here are isolated and ignorant and fish and farm in their small habitats. He does not think they know much about war at all. And when he leaves the ship for the first time in weeks to go to their small market, they look at him with fear. 

For months all he has seen is disappointment and anger in others' eyes—in his uncle’s, in his crew's. It is nice to feel something different regardless of what that is and he revels in it, keeping his lips pursed as he wanders through the stands, his coin purse dangling at his side. He doesn’t need or want much but he has money and the people here know it. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever commanded this much attention in a space where he should have deserved it—a place like his own nation. He wishes these people were Fire Nation but he supposes they will do. His swords hang at his back because he is here alone and he leans up against an earthen wall in the market’s corner, seeing the woman inside of a nearby stall give him a frightened look. 

His scar is facing her. She’s studying it like it closely and she looks terrified. For once he doesn’t feel ashamed—he can almost pretend that it came from a battle and not him lying, worthless, on the ground, prostrate in front of his father. He holds out a coin, points to some kind of fruit, and she shakily hands it to him. 

It’s red and it’s large and he stalks out of the market with it in his hands, reaching for his swords when he reaches a tiny outcropping and slicing the item in two. It leaks red over his hands and he reaches down and licks the liquid. It’s sweet. It looks a little bit like blood.

The ship is a ways away, past the next rocky outcropping he can see, but it’s not one of his priorities to go back. They have been here for a week like they were at Yu Shong for several and he had not been questioned about it directly from his crew yet. He thinks they are simply happy that his biting orders have ceased, that they have been allowed to do virtually nothing for the past couple of months. He has been different since the Southern Air Temple and yet he hasn’t been questioned about it. 

He isn’t quite sure if Uncle is turning a blind eye to his clear lack of direction, currently, but the old man seems happy with this life. They all seem happier, all of the crew members, without his cruel instructions. They still see him as a child.

He lights a palm up under the other half of the fruit and watches the surface of it bubble before the juice coagulates and comes out in thick crimson. Then he settles down in the sun’s light and licks his lips. For years he had known where to go next to find the Avatar—he had always had someplace to go. And this new plan, what Iroh calls maturity, the staying-in-one-place . . .

His mind has made a decision he barely understands. He has no motivation to scream at his crew to sail the seas and find the Avatar—he has no motivation to see their stiff nods of compliance—he has no motivation to seek his uncle’s help with the matter.

They have all given up and he, blood on his hands in the afternoon light, is only the worst. He does not know where exactly he should go from here.

* * *

“Are you planning to move on, Prince Zuko?”

He uncrosses his hands and turns around. “No, Uncle. We can stay here for longer.”

“It has been several weeks, Prince Zuko. The crew wants to move on further. What is our next destination?”

He bites his lip and goes back to take in the dusk, colors and skies coming alive in front of his eyes. “There is no next destination.”

A pause, a silence. And then heavy steps pound across the deck and a soft hand lands on his shoulder, meant to be comforting. “Do you intend to stay here forever? We must move, no matter what. No matter about the Avatar.”

“Stop talking about the Avatar,” he murmurs before his voice rises. “I don’t want to hear about the Avatar. We’re done talking about the Avatar,” he hisses and moves forward, throwing Iroh’s hand off his back. “I don’t care what the crew says. We are going to stay here.”

* * *

  
  


“What do you mean we aren’t moving?” Jee’s laughter is rough. “At least when you were chasing the Avatar we were able to move. We’re not here to stay in some tiny village—”

“You will not talk about the Avatar, Jee. You will give me respect.”

“You know nothing about respect. You’re treating us like we are nothing, like we’re—”

Iroh’s eyes grow large behind Jee’s back as Zuko flips and stomps his foot against the ground, his expression unwavering. “You're not going to speak to me like that. I know everything I need to know about respect—”

“You’re just a spoiled prince who’s forcing us to do _nothing—”_

He turns around and reaches out a hand against Jee—the older man blocks the move with his own but his fingers simmer. He can feel fire in his blood, in his veins, waiting to be let go. It’s not that he hasn’t been practicing these past few months, it is that he has been stewing for far too long. He has been reminiscing for far too long and in these two months he has grown past being a Fire Nation prince.

“Easy now,” Iroh runs forward and attempts to placate both of them but Zuko is staring at the Lieutenant with an unmatched fury that he thinks might be disturbing the man. “Enough! We are all a bit tired of being here so long—”

“Move, Uncle,” he says darkly. “I don’t need your help keeping order on my ship.” The words are a challenge to Jee. 

“Prince Zuko, this is not—”

“Jee has every right to question me,” he glares at Iroh who moves back with a frown. “And I have any right to challenge him. He, who’s claiming that I'm a spoiled child, who’s claiming that I know nothing about respect—”

“You don’t,” Jee hisses, and Zuko frowns before sinking back and into one of his starting forms. 

“I know enough about respect and I’m not a spoiled prince. You’re here on my ship and you will follow my rules.”

This is not the right setting for an Agni Kai, but it’ll do for a regular duel—and he strikes first, something he is finding himself prone to do. When you strike first you plant fear into your enemy’s heart; they are forced to acknowledge that they started out on the defensive. Zuko is no longer going to be on the defensive, no longer going to face his moves on those of another. He is strangely silent as he kicks out at Jee and the older man ducks, replying with a perfunctory blow.

It’s almost juvenile, the attack, and that spurs him. It’s another treatment of him as a child, a way for the man to maintain his own honor while failing to incapacitate his prince. Jee’s words are just words. “Fight me,” he growls as the man avoids another attack and falls back. The crew and even Iroh are against the ship’s wall, looking on, intrigued.

That is responded to with a burst of flame he easily deflects and so he notches himself up, channeling his hours of practice and years of resilience and meditation into a twist in the air, landing him far enough away from Jee to kick out a burst of flame that takes him by surprise. Something burns because then there is a cloud of smoke; when it clears he is standing there with parts of his eyebrows singed, his gray hair dusted with ash.

“Zuko,” the lieutenant says, but he anticipated this and he jumps back against the next two consecutive attacks, crossing his arms together and canceling the last blow.

“Are you going to fight me?” he questions again, and Jee reaches up to smooth over one of his eyebrows before roaring forward at the Fire Lord’s son, the rest of the crew gasping as they look on. Iroh, he thinks, is standing motionless at his side. Zuko crosses his hands and lets the heat manifest itself in the air near him, using the energy to coat his own insides and punch out a series of fireballs that barely miss the man’s head. 

He has improved in these past two months and the look in Jee’s eyes feels nice. He looks a little afraid but that also isn’t satisfying. Jee still sees the thirteen-year-old at the Western Air Temple. That is not who he wants to be anymore. He’s not sure who he is and he’s not sure what he wants beyond his throne. He has no idea how he is going to get what he wants. But he knows that he is sick of being the scarred Prince Zuko. He is sick of being taken for a petulant child.

Boys go on adventures that they’re told to take; men look at the instructions of their superiors and question them. He spoke in the war room and was punished for this and sent on an impossible quest. He’s thought for years that his father had been trying to teach him an important lesson—and he took on the terms of his exile with fervor. He’s been following his father and all of this _blindly._ He is not going to do that anymore. He has grown up and he will be treated like he deserves to be.

He may be scarred but he is not disgraced. 

“You will give me respect,” he grits out and finds rage in his throat, feels his insides combust, before he breathes fire that comes out in a _whirlpool,_ a collection of colors, bright and dark and the hue of blood, of red paint. Jee jumps back and he hears a screech. When the fire clears, the spot where the man stood at the edge of the deck is empty.

Zuko stalks forward. “Where did he go?” he stomps, asks rhetorically, and his crew is silent; even his uncle, so full of proverbs and advice, has nothing to say right now. He presses his hands across the metal fingers of the ship’s railings and looks out below at the raging ocean. It only makes sense that Jee had fallen in.

“Where is—” he questions to himself again before he hears a splash from below. He glares at the deckhands who run up across from him and stare over the ship’s side. Jee may be old but he is relatively muscular and he is a man of war who fought at Ba Sing Se . . . but he likely doesn’t know how to swim very well.

Zuko’s phoenix-tail, long and rough, feels hard against his scalp. He draws back from where he’s staring down and clutching the deck, closing his hands over his chest instead. Jee’s form writhing in the water is still in clear view. 

It is not too far to the shores of Giayao but the terrain here is rocky and the sea splashes unforgivingly against the jagged stones that make up the island’s barriers. It would be suicide for Jee to swim to shore—the waves would likely claim him as their own, would likely take over his limbs and slam him into the sharp edges they have spent eons whittling away. It’s a meaningful end and a meaningful destiny to return to the sea, a poetic tale. What the ocean takes and the ocean gives is purposeful, small and broad strokes across its blue-gray canvas.

Jee is being pulled away, his short hair plastered to his forehead and his breathing rough as he tries to stay afloat, attempting to flip on his stomach. One of the men rushes to the side and retrieves the rope and the weight they use for such emergencies, two others joining him to quickly uncoil its length.

Zuko turns sharply and entraps them with his stare so that they stop moving, coils of rope falling limply in their hands. One looks anxiously back to the side and starts talking, twitching. “He needs to be given—”

“Address me by my proper title.”

“Prince Zuko, Jee needs to—”

“Leave it,” he hisses, coming into his own, certain that this is meant to pass—and the man drops the rope; the others next to him follow until it’s thrown across the deck, their mouths hanging slightly open. Iroh sounds at his side. 

“You must ensure that Jee is safe, Prince Zuko!”

“He has to face the consequences of his actions,” he turns away from his uncle, trying to keep his breath in his chest, trying to, indeed, channel respect. He is a man and not a boy and he is going to start commanding his ship and making his own decisions. “He shouldn’t have said—”

“Prince Zuko! Do not be ridiculous,” something shifts and then Iroh addresses the men at the side, “get Lieutenant Jee—”

His hair whips and he lights up his palm. His fire isn’t directed at them but they wince anyway—his shows usually aren’t very impressive so it’s strange that these men who have watched him train for years look shy today. No, it isn’t. He knows what has changed. He knows. “Don’t you dare.”

Their eyes flip between Zuko and Iroh and Iroh breathes out again roughly. “This is ridiculous, he did not do—”

“He disrespected me!” 

The men’s confusion defines the outcome of this small battle; when he looks back at the ocean Jee is already too far away to be brought back to them. Zuko finds the courage to look at Iroh, too, and his uncle isn’t glaring at him with disapproval—instead he is staring out at the man’s figure getting pulled out into the ocean. 

Jee has served Zuko for years and this was the first time he showed such flagrant disrespect. Should he have done this? He stares out at the gray head on the horizon. That was essentially a death sentence and it was wrong. But it was a lesson and his nonviolent mentality has gotten him nowhere so far.

He just feels _cold._ Iroh doesn’t turn to look at him before stepping towards the deck—Zuko watches in silence as he lets the door fall shut behind him and silently gestures for the rest of the crew to return to their positions. They run over each other to get there.

* * *

  
  


No, he doesn’t know what he’s doing now. He wants to destroy the past and he thinks the best way to do that would be to build a future but he doesn’t know _how_ to do that— 

(A part of him does know, knew when he didn’t feel much remorse when he saw Jee’s body fall away with the waves. This part of him is tugging at his insides like it’s been inside of him for years and is now bursting into life, into color—this is the part of him that follows his father’s bloodline.)

Iroh does not leave his room for sixteen days and nights. When he comes to the deck in the morning while Zuko is meditating against the waves he sits without a steaming teacup and faces his nephew with his expression forlorn. 

He doesn’t know what to say here, how to solve this problem. He loves his uncle for the faith the man has given him but that doesn’t mean he agrees with all of his teachings. He cannot agree with _everyone._

“I served with him in Ba Sing Se.”

He keeps his eyes closed, reaches inwardly for his flame, centers his fire around his heart, beating so calmly. He is scared, a little, of what he’ll see in front of him. “I know.”

“I need to know why, Zuko. You are not like your father.”

The lack of title is jarring. “I’m not.”

His next words are confused. “You have been nicer to the crew lately, given them more allowance.”

“I’m not like my father,” he grits out again. 

“Why? This is not like you.”

“I—” he starts. “I don’t know what’s like me. But I’m different now.”

“I have been on this ship with you for over three years, Zuko. I know you,” and he expected Iroh to be cruel, to be accusatory. Instead he looks understanding—and that makes Zuko realize that his uncle doesn’t know that he doesn’t feel remorse at what he did, that he hasn’t spent late nights staring at his ceiling and deliberating over Jee’s fate. No, he cares more about himself. Still, Iroh has been his staunchest ally and . . . no, he can’t comprehend this.

“I think about it every day,” he lies and opens his eyes, avoiding making contact with Iroh’s wrinkled gaze. “It was a . . . mistake.”

Now he has respect and now his crew listens to him and now _he_ is the only person who gets to decide his fate . . . if he could even decide, if he could chart out his own destiny. No, it wasn’t a mistake. It was a personal catalyst and Iroh might have understood back when he was leading the siege of Ba Sing Se. But he’s grown pacifist over the past few years, after Lu Ten, and Zuko wishes he understood . . . he will not be Lu Ten. He values his own life. He’s done all of this, after all, because he values his own life.

“I hope, Prince Zuko,” Iroh says quietly, “I hope that you learn from this. I hope that you have learned humility from this. There is no honor in a situation such as that.”

He hates that word so much. He hasn’t just learned from this, he’s accomplished a goal—he cannot explain that, of course. How does he tell Iroh that he enjoys this newfound respect, that he doesn’t mind that all it required was throwing a man into the ocean? He would be lectured and touted as morally insecure but that’s all just so . . . subjective. 

“I’ve been—I don’t want the crew to hate me,” he continues hesitantly. “After that. I think they’re scared of me and they shouldn’t be scared of me.”

Iroh doesn’t hear his lies—he hears the thirteen-year-old boy in the War Room, insisting that patriots shouldn’t be sacrificed. Maybe all Iroh will ever see is that boy and that’s fine . . . someone has to. “They will be,” he admits, “and for good reason. You reminded me of your father.”

“I am _not_ my father.”

“I know. But still, Prince Zuko . . . you must find a way to repent. I am glad that you have been doing this yourself. It is telling of your character.”

Iroh reaches out a hand and places it on his shoulder and Zuko tries to ignore his urge to pull away, instead smiling lightly. Blatant fear is not the way to do anything—he learned that from his father and he is not his father. He never will be. His father, above everything else, is narrow-minded. Like Azula—they enjoy pain and not success. That’s not what he wants.

He wants everything, he decides then and there. And he knows how to get it but he also isn’t quite ready to tell himself pointedly how that’s going to happen. But a plan is writing itself across his mind and he quickly excuses himself to think this through further. He’s going to do that now, too. He is going to think things through.

* * *

Zuko draws his hood further over his face, sure that he looks incredibly suspicious right now. But this is a port city frequented by pirates and his swords are visible behind him while he holds gold in his palm, so the people might not care who he is. At the end of the day they want his money and they don’t care how he got it—

It’s hilarious how that might be the most innocent part of him. He steps into the town’s small amphitheater, throwing a handful of coins to the man at the door. He falls over himself trying to collect them so he can slide in, slinking over to the dark corner where the dank lights of the show won’t reach him. Then he sits down on a creaky seat and watches the play.

This rendition of Love Amongst the Dragons, done by a troupe of fisherman’s schoolchildren, is still less butchered than all the terrible versions he’d seen on Ember Island when he was younger with his mother. Still, his expression stays staunch as he sees a small boy come out behind the curtain wearing a blue mask—he has one just like it in his chambers. It was his mother’s. 

Zuko almost smiles wistfully at the young boy grabbing a sword and jumping across the stage, screaming something about searching out a dragon spirit. The very premise of the story isn’t that interesting to him—romance, itself, isn’t very appealing—but it reminds him of some of the last times his family was happy together, when his mother was still alive and his father wasn’t insane and Azula still went by nicknames and helped him build castles in the sun. Occasionally, when he was much younger, Lu Ten and Uncle Iroh had joined them. 

He’s out of sight but this room is full of happy families, young men and women who are staring at the children dancing and prattling on the rickety stage adoringly. He takes in a man probably a decade his senior across from him, his musculature and dirty hands giving him away as an earthbender. He has his arm around a woman dressed in a combination of Earth Kingdom greens and Fire Nation reds, his face bright as he smiles at the boy who’s the Blue Spirit. 

The scene tugs at his heart and he grimaces and curls himself up into his cloak, trying to pay attention to the small boy and girl dressed in dragon costumes on the stage who are holding hands and blushing under harsh face paint, professing their love to each other. As the makeshift curtain falls the entire audience rises and applauses—but he stays seated, ready to loiter away the next few minutes as all the families leave.

He tries to keep his eyes away from the earthbender father and mother who reach down to take off their son’s mask before hoisting him into their arms, in a conjoined hug—they reach around each other to pull each other together. The father reaches down to whisper something in the boy’s ear and he grins and hugs his mother closer.

This boy is Earth Kingdom—he has soiled hair and green eyes and warm skin and he is nothing like Zuko. His father is likely a farmer or a sailor and he is nowhere close to being the prince of anything and yet he has something that royalty has wanted for so long but never succeeded at getting . . .

He throws all caution to the wind and stomps outside past the crowd, causing several small children to turn to look at him. His gait, harsh and strong, throws his cloak off his face so that his scar is visible. He hears their sharp gasps and doesn’t even care anymore, letting them observe the burnt part of his face. 

The Prince of the Fire Nation stomps the entire way back to his ship.

* * *

  
  


Usually he meditates when he wakes up in the morning, right before the sun rises on the horizon. But today he needs to look deeper into himself so when he twists and turns at night he doesn’t even try to close his eyes, knowing he’ll see his father’s sadistic look whenever he does. Visions of training sessions and backhanded glares and then of a final Agni Kai . . . he shudders.

The bags underneath his eyes are deep but he can’t make them go away, so he just blinks at himself in his tiny mirror, seeing the light covering of dark hair across his scalp and away from his phoenix-tail. He’s about to reach for a knife and shave his skull but then he thinks about that a second time and places the sharp item down. Maybe he can let his hair grow.

He refuses to feel guilty as he crawls to the top deck, not even trying to stay overtly quiet—it’s not like his crew is going to complain about him waking them up. The wind bites at him when he gets up, shuffling his robes around his body, but he pushes the chill away by crossing his legs and summoning his inner fire. 

Meditation for firebenders is meant to be a time of togetherness, a way for one to reach inside their inner fire and ensure that it stays calm. Unlike every other type of bender those who wield fire are perpetually in-control of themselves. The sun helps with that but Zuko . . . Zuko doesn’t need the sun.

For how terrible his father and Azula are . . . they have purpose. They aren’t like him, trapped between his mother’s words and Uncle’s inscriptions and father’s rage. They want to create fear and have power and he doesn’t want those things. But he has to have something; that _want_ is what will define his destiny.

His body knows the solution to the mess that is his mind and he involuntarily shudders as he heats himself up, lets his fire sink into every orifice of his bones, lets the flames consume his mind. When he closes his eyes the rampaging ocean and the gusts sliding over his body evaporate together until he’s left with himself in his darkest recesses, a blank canvas.

He thinks about the ghosts at the Southern Air Temple, of Jee’s floating body, of the young Earth Kingdom boy hugging his father. If you make the right decision for the wrong reasons are you still to blame?

Some people would say no—those are the same people that would say that the destination matters more than the journey. And Zuko has sailed the seas over and over again, has led his crew in circles for years, and the vast majority of his journey was worthless. For years on years he poured over maps and history books, trying to find the spirits, trying to find _anything_ which would have him find the Avatar, and to what avail? 

He is sixteen—he has been here since he was thirteen—and this is ridiculous. This entire voyage is. He doesn’t know how he’s been justifying this to himself. He’d realized, years ago, that if Sozin and Azulon and Ozai and Iroh could not find the Avatar he was likely not going to be able to either. That is only common sense. And yet . . . he’s still tried with what can only be called boyish determination. 

Because that’s it. He was a boy, one who lost his mother and himself in the same heartbeat. When they tell stories the heroes are men, however. Men who grow up and out of formulaic experiences—but those men don’t want their honor. They want their lovers or their families. They want something they’ve _lost._

He has, all this time, been thinking that he has lost his dignity and that he must find it to keep his family—he never stopped for a second to stare at the sky and think that he lost the latter first, that this dismal fate has been in his cards since the moment his father addressed Fire Lord Azulon and the man told him to kill his son. 

This is not meditation. When he wakes up the sun is on the horizon.

* * *

  
  


“You want to defeat my father,” he whispers, sitting at the head of Iroh’s bed. “You don’t like this. You never have, have you?”

Iroh jumps up out of his bed, his sheets luckily covering his top half. His eyes are wild and his mouth opens like he’s about to breathe fire before he calms when he sees Zuko’s face.

And that, also, is _hilarious._

Still, he breathes in resolutely and waits for his uncle to comprehend his words. When Iroh does he backs up, pressing his back to his bed frame even as he tries to wear a visage of nonchalance. “Zuko, what happened?”

He takes in a deep breath. “You don’t think my father is doing the right thing.”

“What do you think, Prince Zuko?” Iroh asks measuredly and he figures that’s not a terrible question to answer. 

“I think that you don’t. But then I don’t get why you didn’t fight him for the throne.”

Iroh responds hesitantly. “Your grandfather gave him the throne.”

“Definitely,” he scoffs. “I don’t get it. You would be a better Fire Lord.”

“You don’t think that I’m weaker than your father? Emotionally weakened—”

“I do,” Zuko interjects. “I don’t think that would make you a worse Fire Lord.”

This time he waits for Iroh to get up and throw on the tunic next to him, the scene illuminated by the sconces in the corner of his room. This small chamber is nothing compared to his once grandiose quarters but the Fire Nation’s other former Crown Prince looks rather at home here. When Iroh’s robes are on and he is sitting back on his bed, he looks at his nephew intently. 

“Sometimes I am scared of you, Prince Zuko.”

“You know I made a mistake! You know—”

“I know,” Iroh says. “But our mistakes reflect on us.”

“What does that even mean?” he feels uncomfortable speaking about this because he doesn’t think he’s ever told a more honest lie. “I didn’t mean to. I make mistakes. We all do wrong things. Look what you did in Ba Sing Se—”

“You think what I did in Ba Sing Se was wrong?”

“I—”

“What part of it, do you think?”

He opens his mouth and closes it because he doesn’t know his answer or the one Iroh wants to hear. He won’t know until he gets an actual answer to his question. “I haven’t thought about it that much, but it was wrong,” he takes a chance. “War is always wrong. It should be stopped.”

In a way, war is all he’s ever known. 

Then Iroh takes in a deep breath. “Your father is not a good Fire Lord to the people or to the world, Prince Zuko. That is more important than anything else. My brother is not a good man.”

He stares pointedly at Zuko’s scar but he refuses to turn away. “What are you doing about it?”

“What do you mean? I am with you—”

“You’re doing something,” he laughs weakly, “aren’t you? You’re always _doing_ something with your brain, like stupid Pai Sho—”

“Do not call Pai Sho stupid,” Iroh interrupts with a modicum of rage and Zuko wants to just laugh again but he doesn’t. “I do not . . . I don’t know what you are asking of me.”

He places a hand on each of his crossed knees. “You know. You’ve known.”

“Tell me.”

“I want it back,” he says resolutely. “I want to fight my father.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to My-Bated-Breath, who makes this all readable :D + Thank you for reading!


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